


Fall with You

by wilddragonflying



Series: Post Reichenbach [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, John can't forgive Sherlock that easily, M/M, Not forgiven, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock fell from the roof of St. Bartholomew's, he didn't just take himself.</p><p>He took John with him.</p><p>Three years later, and John has just started to get over Sherlock's death. When he finally makes the call to Sherlock's number-- expecting no one to pick up, to be talking to the machine-- he gets a rude surprise. But forgiveness doesn't come easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall with You

Fall With You

 

When Sherlock fell from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s, he didn’t just take himself.

 

He took John with him.

 

Sherlock said he was doing it to save John, but he when he killed himself, he killed John as well. For now, without his brilliant detective, John is but a shadow of himself. It’s worse than when he came back from Afghanistan. His psychosomatic limp is back, the tremor in his left hand becomes less intermittent and more constant, and he can’t go farther than a few steps without his cane. Most days he can’t even manage that.

 

He once thought that the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he would die. Whether he was killed, or died of old age, the thing he feared most was death. He had been on that cliff edge too many times to count—first in Afghanistan, then with Sherlock—and each time he had been afraid, but he had always accepted the possibility that he could die.

 

This was so much worse.

 

He was alive, but he was dead. Walking—or limping, rather—around London, visiting their old haunts, the places their cases had taken them, his body active but his mind dead. He hadn’t thought it possible for there to be a literal Hell on earth, but now he knew differently. There was a Hell, but it wasn’t a physical place. It was a mental state. The state where you were either completely and utterly empty inside or you constantly relived your worst moments, your worst memories.

 

For John, those memories were any to do with Sherlock. Even the “good” memories hurt so much. Each night he would fall asleep—sometimes clutching a pillow, sometimes with an arm thrown over his eyes, sometimes just staring blankly at the ceiling, but always, _always_ fighting back tears—thinking of Sherlock. Everyone told him to move on, but how could he move on from the best thing that had ever happened to him?

 

He wished now that he had had the courage to tell Sherlock the three simple words he was positive the detective had never heard said sincerely. Every day, he looked at his phone, at the contact that said simply, “SH,” and his fingers always hesitated over the “call” button, or the “new text” option, and every day he forced himself to put the phone down, to remind himself that Sherlock could not answer, would not see the message or hear the voicemail even if he were to leave one.

 

Finally, though, John couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He bit his lip as he dialed Sherlock’s number. His mind distracted by the pain that was finally growing to be too much, he didn’t hear the soft ringtone outside of the flat door, didn’t hear the soft _click_ as the phone was answered. “Sherlock,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Sherlock, why? _Why_? You could have had the world, _saved_ the world, and instead you chose to save me? I’m nothing special, Sherlock. I never was, not before I met you. And now that you’re gone, I’m no one again. I’m just John Watson, war veteran.” John had to stop speaking, pressing the heel of one hand to his eyes. “I’m just John Watson. But you… You were never just Sherlock Holmes. You were always so much more. To everyone…

 

“To me.

 

“I don’t know how to say this, even though I know that you’re dead, that you won’t hear this anyway, but… Sherlock, when you died, I died with you. I am nothing, I am no one. I don’t conduct genius, Sherlock, I only ever seemed to conduct it for you. I used to wonder why that was, but… I know. I have known for a while, I was too _bloody_ stupid to recognize it.

 

“I love you.

 

“There. I’ve said it. I’ve said it, and I don’t feel one iota better, because what difference does it make? I never told you while you were alive, when you could hear it, know that I meant it. You could have read it somehow, in my body language or some other nonsense—hell, you probably did—and known that I was telling the truth. Once you told me that whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth. I eliminated everything, Sherlock. All that I know for sure is that you remain. You were my truth. Without you…

 

Without you, I don’t know how to go on living.”

 

John hung up, his head hanging as he finally succumbed to the tears that he had stubbornly held at bay for three years. His shoulders shook and his head pounded and the tears flowed, and it felt so bloody good to finally _feel_ something, even if that something was pain so intense it felt like nothing else could possibly exist.

 

Vaguely, John was aware of the door banging open, of footsteps pounding through the flat towards him, of something heavy landing in front of him. Hands were grabbing at his own, pulling his hands away from his face. He kept his eyes screwed shut, though, refusing to look at Lestrade or whoever had decided to come check up on him now.  
  
“John, John, don’t do it, please, John, don’t.” John sucked in a gasp but didn’t open his eyes. No, he was hallucinating; there was no other explanation possible. Sherlock was dead; John had felt the lack of pulse, had seen Sherlock be _buried_ for God’s sake. This couldn’t be Sherlock holding his hands in those incredibly long, slender fingers that had so skillfully manipulated a microscope or coaxed music from a violin. Couldn’t be Sherlock kneeling on the floor, begging him to not do something.

 

“Don’t do it, please,” Sherlock begged, his own voice strained as John felt one hand move to cup his cheek. “John, John, look at me, I’m real, I’m real, I’m here,” he chanted over and over, and finally John opened his eyes and looked at the familiar face—the face that had haunted his dreams for three years now—only inches from him. John gasped and jerked back.

 

“No, no, no,” he whimpered, curling in on himself. “No, you’re not. You’re not real. I saw you fall, I saw you die, I saw you buried…” John struggled to his feet, cane forgotten by the chair in the rush of adrenaline. “I saw you die,” he repeated numbly, shaking his head.

 

The Sherlock look-alike slowly got to its feet, looking at John warily. “John, I am real. Please, John, believe me. I don’t care if you kick me out—actually I would care, but I wouldn’t protest—but please, don’t do it, don’t end it, please.”

 

John didn’t say anything, instead moving closer warily, slowly lifting one hand and pressing it to the other man’s cheek. It felt solid enough beneath his hand. “Sherlock?” he whispered, not daring to hope that he was not having a particularly vivid hallucination, that Sherlock was, in fact, standing in front of him.

 

“I’m here,” Sherlock said, his voice soft.

 

John stared at him for a moment, coming to grips with the fact that Sherlock was standing right in front of him, miraculously alive, and then hauled back and punched Sherlock square in the nose. “You bloody bastard! You let me think you were _dead!_ ” he screamed, flinging himself at Sherlock, his military training coming into play as he let his anger replace the pain, punching as much of Sherlock as he could reach.

 

“Three bloody _years_ , Sherlock! Three years, and you couldn’t even send me one. _Fucking._ Message?” he snarled, finally managing to wrestle and pin the taller man to the floor, his knee pressed into Sherlock’s back, one hand braced on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other yanking the formerly-dead detective’s arm back as painfully far as it would go.

 

“John, I had to keep you safe!” Sherlock protested, freezing under John’s hold. When John only snarled and increased the pressure behind the hand pressing into Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock added, “I’m telling the truth, John! I didn’t know how far Moriarty would go, so I had to make sure you were safe!”

 

“Why?” John snarled, twisting Sherlock’s arm. “Why? Why stay away for three years, why never come back, never call, never even send a bleeding _text_?”

 

“Because I wouldn’t have been able to stop at only that, John. I love you.” The detective stiffened under John. John could read the surprise in Sherlock’s profile, and he froze, as well.

 

“What. Did you say?” he whispered, half-afraid he was imagining things, but Sherlock was too real, too solid, laid out below him.

 

“I said, ‘I love you,’” Sherlock answered, his voice a stunned whisper.

 

John scrambled from Sherlock’s back as if burned. He stared at Sherlock, aghast. Then his features hardened as he watched Sherlock get to his feet, “So, what, you think you can just show up here, tell me you love me, and I’ll accept you back with open arms, is that it?” he demanded roughly, forcing himself to ignore the twinge in his gut when he spotted the blooming bruises on Sherlock’s face, bruises John had put there himself moments ago.

 

“No, John—“ Sherlock tried to begin, but John cut him off.

 

“Just don’t, Sherlock,” he said tiredly, suddenly unable to deal with all of this. “Just… Just don’t.” He turned his back to Sherlock, rubbing a hand over his face. “Get out. I can’t deal with this; I finally started to accept you were gone, and now you’re back? I can’t do this, Sherlock. So please, _please_ , just leave.”

 

“John,” Sherlock said, moving forward and taking John’s arms his grip. “Why?” he asked, searching John’s gaze.

 

John felt his face harden. “You’re the genius; figure it out for yourself. Or I’ll save us both the time: I trusted you, Sherlock. I _loved_ you. You were my best friend, and you committed suicide. You jumped from the roof of Saint Bart’s. You _left_ me.” He stared at Sherlock, his gaze icy, until Sherlock slowly released him and took a step back. “I’m not ready to forgive you, Sherlock. Not now, not for a while. So, please, just… Just leave.”

 

Sherlock hesitated, and John refused to let any emotion show until after Sherlock had slowly turned and walked back out of the flat, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him. John waited until he heard the footsteps descending the stairs before he slowly sank to the floor, wrapped his arms around his knees, laid his head on his knees, and let the tears flow.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Reichenbach Fall today, and I got to thinking, and I thought that John wouldn't just forgive Sherlock whenever Sherlock showed up. No, Sherlock would have to work for it.
> 
> So I know you all probably hate me now, but sorry! I had to do it.


End file.
